


my father was a charming man and i learned it all from he

by dulcebase



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Backstory, Flashback fic, Gen, mentions of animal death, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23091925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulcebase/pseuds/dulcebase
Summary: BRUMA, 3E 398 —— The woodcutter's son goes on delivery.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	my father was a charming man and i learned it all from he

The three septims in his pocket feel heavier than the cord of wood he can barely fit both arms around. When he left, his father had given him five: one went to a guard outside the gates to keep watch over his cart; one had gone to the ostler at Wildeye to keep the ancient brown mare that brought them here safe. The last three, he’d been told, were his. 

Three septims, an old iron dagger, a bit of rope, and two apples — for Hestra, waiting outside the gates. The cord of wood he’s carrying is already spoken for. He has to strain around it when he reaches the door to get to its knob, and he shoulders it open as if battling against the mountain wind to get inside.

“Oh, you’re early!” Olav can’t be more than five years older than he is, but it’s a remarkable five years; his voice is deep and booming and there’s already the start of a great beard on his chin. He raises his head from the table he’s cleaning up and jabs it towards the fire. “You can leave the wood by the hearth. I’ll get your pay after this.”

He nods silently, and does what he’s asked. It’s hard to set the wood down gently; it fills his arms entirely. He makes sure it’s arranged in some sort of pile before crossing the room to sit at the bar. Olav rises from underneath it. He can barely hear the nord over the clatter of dishware the men at the table behind him are making. 

“Ten for the week for the main hearth, and I can get you five more if you bring in extra for the oven, if y’ have any.” 

He nods. The coins are tied in a neat leather sack. In a small movement, he points to it. 

“Yeah, I’ll throw in the pouch. Only ‘cause I like ya’. Should be payin’ me extra, with the wood being green last week.” Olav laughs, mostly to himself. “I’m kiddin’! Don’t tell your father.” 

He doesn’t respond. He takes the pouch in his hands, and then into his pocket. Three septims, an old iron dagger, a bit of rope, two apples, and a week’s wages. He gets off the stool.

“Tell ‘im we hope he’s well, yeah? My pa told me to send word to yours.” 

Paused at the door-frame, he nods more vigorously, then disappears into the light refracted off the snow.

“You got a mute lumberjack?” Olav turns to the guard at the table; he’s new, off-duty, around five tankards in at middday. Foam still clings to his moustache when he talks. He opens his mouth to speak, but his drinking partner interrupts.

“Nah,” he says, “that’s just Lachance’s kid. Lives out in the mountains and delivers for his pa. Fetchin’ weird one, that one. Ain’t no one’s heard him talk.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Brings us wood and keeps out of trouble, though, so we let him be.”

The new guard shrugs and empties another tankard. As he's refilling it, Olav wonders if he's ever going to get that extra wood.

* * *

His arms are aching by the time he brings the last cord to the chapel doors. His shoulder is sore when he nudges it open. 

The vaulted ceilings of the Great Chapel of Talos dwarf him, and in the warm amber of its interior he feels nothing but small. Beyond the pews, the faces of the Divines gaze upon him in their stained glass likenesses and bore into his soul. The door shuts with a slam from the wind without, the force of it nearly making him shudder as he stands still in the doorway, arms full of wood. Primate Theophon looks up from the altar. 

“Ah. We’ll be putting that in the chapel hall, you know where by now. I’ll be there to unlock it in a bit, child,” he says. The priest gets only nodding in response. 

His grip tightens white-knuckled as he makes his way down the steps towards the hall and undercroft. Each footstep only makes a little whisper of sound where rocks have stuck into his boots, scraping against the marble. He winces a bit each time. Brother Theophon follows close behind.

“Will you need help?” A quick shake of the head. “Ah, of course not. You’ve been getting stronger since you started helping out, my child, I can see it! Give it a few more years and you really will look like your father.” Theophon’s shaking hands rattle the key in the lock. He offers a smile. “Of course, you’ll always look more Nibenese.”

He pays the conversation no mind. His footsteps are quiet, little patters as he rushes in to refill the log rack. 

“I always did wonder why a Nibenese woman would live in the Rift,” Theophon half-mutters to himself, standing at the door. “I suppose it’s the most businesslike Skyrim has to offer.”

“What?” His voice is small; low, hoarse and half-whispered. The priest blinks in surprise to hear it at all.

“Did Edain never tell you why he won’t take proper payment from me? It isn’t out of the good of his heart or charity towards the Divine, I’ll tell you that!” He huffs. “He owes me, child! He owes me for you! And you’re both lucky I have a better memory than Hermaeus Mora, else I may not have recognized you when they sent you here. Even as a babe, you looked like your father in the face, but I know an Imperial when I see one, and they said you came from the Rift, so I certainly believed them!” 

He goes to continue, but finds the room before him empty. The chapel doors swing shut with a heavy sound. 

He arrives home with five weeks’ wages, three septims, an old iron dagger, a bit of rope, and no apples. Outside, Hestra whinnies, as if demanding another snack. Inside, everything is quiet. The fire crackles. Edain Lachance breathes deeply, the scent of dinner before him making his quick prayer to Kynareth’s bounty all the more difficult to get through. After a moment, he opens his eyes.

“Alright,” he says, and tears a loaf of bread in half, then in half again. He hands the inner section across the table to his son. They eat, for a while, in silence.

“...Found another pile of rats outside the shed,” Edain starts, in-between bites. “Now, you know I don’t mind you helping out, and we’ve had problems since winter’s rolled in, but you know you got to take care of them properly.”

The light is low. He looks down at his food. Edain pauses, then continues.

“We’re gonna get wolves, Luce. I’m proud of you for being able to take on a few rats of that size, but if you take care of a pest, you’ve got to get rid of the body proper. Alright?”

“...alright.” His voice is quiet. Edain leans in, looking up from beneath his strong brow.

“ _Alright?_ ”

“Alright.” Edain smiles warmly.

“That’s a lad.”

They finish their meal in silence. It’s already dark by the time they’re washing up. Edain will leave early in the morning to head out to the trees again, axe in hand. He retires early, too. Bids his son to sleep well, and he certainly does; his snores cover up the creaking of the door’s hinges.

It’s a clear night. Masser shines brightly, Secunda waning. There’s an apple in his pocket — to calm Hestra as he’s saddling her — and a cord of wood tied up with a bit of rope to make a sling for his back. He heads for Bruma, first. They let him in the gate without issue.

He leaves for Riften with eight septims, an old iron dagger, a bit of rope, a few day’s rations, a small hatchet, a roll of blanket, and a few extra apples — for Hestra. 

* * *

The peaks of the Jeralls at their highest are too much for Hestra’s old heart to bear. They’ve scant reached the Skyrim border before she buckles. He makes a small camp when he’s thrown from her back. Getting meat is no hard task, but it takes so much longer when it’s only his small hands doing it, when the cut is so much bigger than what he’d find from a deer. 

It would have been one day’s ride to Riften. On foot, it’s at least three. When the wind picks up and whites out the path, it’s more like four. 

He goes anyway. He doesn’t look back. 

**Author's Note:**

> originally, this was meant to go with other, later fics to explain the inconsistencies in lucien's backstory and talk about why he's an imperial with a breton name who apparently lived in skyrim for a while, but then i never wrote those other chapters. maybe i will one day
> 
> anyway im firmly in the 'no, lucien lachance is a weird serial killer hes not sexy' camp and i'm tryin to write a realistic character here sue me


End file.
